


catches on every thorn

by saturatedsinset



Category: All Elite Wrestling
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Dissociation, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Safeword Use, Sensory Processing Disorder, Subspace, Watersports, technically it isn't specifically safeword use but. like. the spirit of the thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturatedsinset/pseuds/saturatedsinset
Summary: He really, really doesn’t want to ask for help. It’s different than just settling his nerves or pulling him back down to earth, somehow, and. Kenny already relies on too many people, too much, suspects (knows) that it’s a burden for Matt, Mox, Brandi, Joey, everyone who helps him come down when he’s climbing the walls. So he’s at an impasse with— himself, apparently. It just makes the moment feel even more impossible.
Relationships: Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley/Kenny Omega, Ibushi Kota/Kenny Omega, Joey Janela/Kenny Omega
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. the bones are melting

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: there is an explicit reference to past self-harm in the second paragraph. this is the only time self-harm is explicitly referenced. it is also implied that kenny is self-harming through kink in this, so if that is likely to upset you, i recommend giving this fic a miss
> 
> i like to call this one “i project my own sensory processing disorder onto kenny omega.” also you’re just gonna have to get on board w the fact that kenny and joey fuck on the reg in this one.
> 
> technically part 3 of the skeu, but it takes place [shrug] sometime. warm blood should’ve told you how much thought i put into actual timelines (none)
> 
> talk to me on tumblr at saturatedsinset
> 
> title & chapter titles from "Sweet Hibiscus Tea" by Penelope Scott

Kenny’s been staring at his hand for a minute solid, thinks he can tell where skin wraps over bone and sinew. It’s like he can see the seams, imperfect edges where he could scratch for a minute and watch it peel away, show him and everyone else what’s under the surface. He can’t help it, sometimes, studying the physical reality of his own body. His skin feels too small to contain him half the time, his body too clean when it’s like he can feel the grit in his veins. This weird feeling doesn’t strike often, but it arrests Kenny completely every time, makes him want to claw his skin off or get in the shower for a week solid or just let the sweat dry on his skin, let the dirt settle  _ on _ him like it has  _ in _ him.

There are ways to deal with it, he knows. Ignoring it doesn’t work—it passes eventually, but it’s like it leaves Kenny disconnected, out of step with himself somehow, and by the time  _ that _ passes he doesn’t remember what feeling normal is. On his own, he usually just ends up scratching a patch of skin raw, finding the blood and plasma underneath and somehow that settles him. Or he can ask for help.

He really, really doesn’t want to ask for help. It’s different than just settling his nerves or pulling him back down to earth, somehow, and. Kenny already relies on too many people, too much, suspects (knows) that it’s a burden for Matt, Mox, Brandi, Joey, everyone who helps him come down when he’s climbing the walls. So he’s at an impasse with— himself, apparently. It just makes the moment feel even more impossible.

There’s a knock at the door, so loud and sudden in the quiet of the room that he almost jumps out of his own skin. Shaken, it takes him longer than it should to make himself get up, and by the time he’s got to the door whoever it is knocks again.

Mox shoulders past him into the room, grabs Kenny’s hand and drags him to the bed. For a moment he doesn’t speak, just sits Kenny down and stares hard at him. Kenny fidgets, picking at the dirt under his nails. The oppressive silence is heavy on his shoulders, but he doesn’t know how to break it, doesn’t know what Mox is even here for. Kenny bows his head, can’t quite make himself meet Mox’s eyes.

“So were you gonna tell anyone something was up?” Mox asks. There’s something odd in his tone, annoyance masking some strange worry, and Kenny would understand concern if it was about anyone but himself. “Or were you just gonna disappear on me?”

Kenny shakes his head, hunches forward, elbows on his knees. The grey-tan of the hotel room carpet stares back at him, fibers twisting around each other. There’s a spot next to Mox’s shoe that’s wearing thin, backing fabric showing through under the fraying material, and Kenny can’t take his eyes off it. After a few seconds, Mox’s shoe moves, covering the patch. The movement reminds Kenny that the question didn’t seem rhetorical.

“It’s complicated,” he mumbles. It’s not an answer, and Mox will call him on it, but. Explaining it all is too much. He doesn’t know if he has the words. If there even are words for it.

“We’re all used to complicated.” Mox doesn’t mince words, but Kenny can hear what he’s actually saying:  _ you’re always complicated. _ Kenny can’t argue, can’t look up; Mox’s foot shifts again and Kenny almost thinks he can see the carpet wearing thinner under Mox’s shoe. The threadbare patch is visible again. Without thinking, Kenny counts the tracks he can see, the foundations on which the carpet is built. He’s up to four when Mox speaks again.

“Kenny,” he sighs, exasperated, exhausted. Kenny can almost see the familiar shake of Mox’s head, can picture how his shoulders are slumping. He still can’t look up. “You have to tell us. When you need something. Nobody wants to watch you suffer.”

_ Then don’t watch, _ Kenny almost says, but he bites his tongue. Mox doesn’t deserve that kind of venom, but he doesn’t have another answer. He counts up to the sixth track, traces it with his eyes to where it disappears under the sturdier carpet just next to the arch of Mox’s boot. The fraying edge is more grey than tan, appears even grubbier under the washed-out yellow of the lamplight.

“This is different,” is what he manages. He’s not lying—not even trying to, really—but he knows Mox won’t be satisfied with that. 

Sure enough, Mox sighs. To Kenny’s surprise, he sounds more resigned than annoyed; his boots move again, but this time, Mox walks far enough away that Kenny looks up, perplexed. Mox isn’t walking away, though, just grabs the desk chair and drags it back over so he can sit in front of Kenny. He makes eye contact for the first time, takes advantage of Kenny’s momentary confusion to look right at him, and. Mox’s attention is always intense, especially when he only has one person to focus on. Now, it seems amplified, concern written on his face over any anger that might be there.

“Tell me how,” he says, measured and steady, the simple command somehow stirring Kenny more than a lecture. It’s exactly this kind of intensity that makes him let his guard down around Mox, even though this is the worst time to be unguarded.

But. But Kenny can hear Kota’s voice in his head, saying  _ talk to me _ and  _ let him take care of you _ and  _ you have to tell us when you need something. _ And letting Kota down is the worst thing Kenny ever does, and he’s done it enough for a lifetime, can’t stomach doing it again. 

“It’s not…” He shakes his head, hair falling into his face as he looks away, finds the worn patch of carpet again. Talking to it is less galling than talking to Mox. “You can’t, like. Fuck me out of it. This time.”

There’s a long pause. Kenny can’t look at Mox, can feel himself blushing even as he speaks. Mox is carefully still, and Kenny can’t tell if it’s because he’s trying to formulate a response or just staring. Maybe both. His legs are in Kenny’s line of sight, now, black jeans fraying over the knees, threads cutting across pale skin like carpet tracks. Kenny wonders how he’s so clean.

“Okay,” Mox says, slowly, the word grinding on the gravel of his voice. It’s the same tone he uses when he sets the rules, and Kenny wants to resent that, but he can’t. “Can you tell me what you mean by ‘it?’”

_ No, _ Kenny almost says. He doesn’t want to, anyway, just wants Mox to leave him to rot. “I’m dirty,” is what he manages, instead, then frowns. That’s not quite right. “I need to be dirty.” It’s the closest he’s ever got to describing this feeling. He needs to be dirty, needs to  _ feel _ dirty, consumed by it, needs to be submerged in filth so that he can come out of it. 

“How?” Mox asks, and the tone is so familiar that Kenny actually looks up. It’s the same way he talks through a match, asks about spots,  _ how do you wanna do that one? _ and it’s so normal Kenny feels insane. Sure enough, Mox doesn’t look confused, or judgemental, just seems to want to make a plan. Kenny blinks as Mox glances at him. Apparently Mox thinks he’s confused, because he adds, “Like, how do you need to be dirty?” 

It’s not an unfair question, exactly, it’s just. Kenny had expected a hundred others.  _ Why? _ or  _ what’s wrong? _ or  _ do you want to take a shower?,  _ maybe, but not  _ how. _ He’s thrown, finally straightens in his seat, watching Mox warily. “Physically,” he tries, glancing at his hand again. “Tangibly. I need to be able to touch it.”

“What do you usually do?” Mox’s concern is back, but it’s the way Kenny’s used to being worried about, a look that asks  _ what dumb thing did you do this time? _ It’s strangely comforting, how completely normal Mox is treating him even when Kenny feels his weirdest.

“Nothing,” Kenny says, truthfully.

Mox is too smart for him. “What did you do last time you had someone to help you?”

There are a thousand things Kenny wants to say.  _ You don’t want to know _ or  _ it was so long ago, it barely counts _ or  _ it wasn’t help _ or a hundred other things that are technically true, but he knows what Mox is asking. 

“Like.” He sighs. “Leave me dirty? I guess? Make me feel dirty. I don’t know."

Mox just says, “Okay,” again, a little frustrated this time, and taps something out on his phone. A few moments pass and he adds, “Give me a couple days.”

“You don’t have to—” Kenny starts, but Mox cuts him off.

“I’m not going to,” he says, and his tone hasn’t changed at all. “I’m finding you someone who will.”

_ I wasn’t asking, _ Kenny almost says, but even though it’s true, he can’t help the desperate  _ want _ that comes with the possibility. By the time he opens his mouth to say something else, Mox is already walking out.

*

A couple days later, Kenny’s in an arena hallway a few feet away from backstage. It’s too loud in there, too many voices trying to shout over each other, so he’d walked away—not far, just enough to clear his head a little. Around him, there’s still the comforting bustle of setup, crew walking back and forth with stage lights and cables and the occasional shouted order. It’s exactly Kenny’s kind of chaos, one that makes him feel more at home than his house. He’s sitting on an empty equipment box, tucked against the wall so that he’s out of the way, and it feels so completely normal that he can almost forget the itching under his skin. Almost.

“Hey,” Joey says, hopping up to sit beside him. Kenny blinks. He hadn’t even noticed him walk up. 

Shuffling over to give Joey a little room, he nods. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’ much,” Joey shrugs, leans over just enough to be in Kenny’s space but doesn’t touch him. He’s got his hair back in a half-ponytail braid crown, neat and almost adorable. Kenny glances at him, and he can’t quite read the look on his face. Patient, maybe. Expectant. “You busy tonight?”

Well. Kenny wouldn’t want to disappoint. He nods, trying to mask the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m free.”

“Cool.” Joey grins, hops back down. It’s weird how easy this always is, with him. “See you in my room then?”

Kenny nods, and Joey pats his thigh before jogging away, toward the locker room. When he looks back at the wall he’d been staring at, cinderblocks painted white, he thinks he can see some bubbles where the paint didn’t quite dry right. He thinks he can feel some of the bubbles under his own skin, too, wonders when they’ll pop.

*

Kenny doesn’t shower before he goes to Joey’s room, can’t quite bring himself to. There’s sweat drying on his skin and he can feel his hair hanging limp over his ears, his forehead, but he feels like he deserves it. Part of him whispers,  _ maybe Joey will punish you for it, _ and he can’t tell if the shiver that runs through him is arousal or apprehension. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he just hopes it doesn’t matter.

Joey looks surprised when he opens the door—Kenny’s earlier than he usually is—but he seems glad to see him, runs a hand up his arm as he greets him like he’s making sure Kenny’s real. The combination of Joey’s hand and the hair on his arm make his skin itch, but he doesn’t scratch it, too self-conscious under Joey’s gaze even though he knows it wouldn’t matter. Joey’s eyes on him just make him more aware of all the ways he doesn’t fit in his skin, the ways he always feels like he’s reaching for something just a half-step too far away to touch.

“I didn’t want to wait any longer,” Kenny says, instead of hello, feels like he needs to explain himself. It makes Joey smile, at least.

“Then let’s not make you wait,” Joey laughs, a quiet, gentle thing, and then he's kissing him. Kenny’s always surprised by how Joey kisses, even now. It’s so meticulous, soft, like he’s reading every little movement; Joey spends so much time throwing himself into everything that Kenny always assumes he’ll kiss the same way, and it’s a pleasant surprise every time. Joey’s hand is gentle on Kenny’s face, thumb brushing over his cheek as he bites Kenny’s lip, careful and coaxing. Kenny’s always happy to follow where he’s led, but with Joey, it feels more like dancing.

It’s too much. It’s lovely, harmonious, almost musical, and Kenny doesn’t deserve it at all, has to pull back, guilt thick in his throat. Joey frowns, and the little wrinkle between his eyebrows looks so out of place, and Kenny hates himself for putting it there. 

“You good, babe?” Joey asks. He’s still so quiet, like he thinks speaking louder will break Kenny, and Kenny hates that he might be right. He thinks he can feel the vibrations of Joey’s speech in his chest, thinks if they were any more intense he might shatter. The thought is discordant, catches in his head. Kenny doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Yeah, fine, yeah,” Kenny breathes, forces a smile. Tells himself it’s not lying, because he will be soon, because that’s why he’s here. Joey seems to get it, or at least decides not to push it, because he just nods and takes Kenny’s hand, leads him to the bed.

Kenny sits, and as the comforter touches his wrist, he flinches. It’s too coarse, crisp cotton too sharply folded against his skin, and even as he smoothes out the crease his wrist is itching. Joey either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment, and Kenny’s grateful, doesn’t know how to explain it other than  _ the fabric was wrong. _

“I heard you’re in your head?” Joey says, like it’s a suggestion, takes Kenny’s hand and brushes his thumb over his knuckles. It’s soothing. Kenny exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. “Mox talked to you?”

Joey nods, and Kenny thinks for a second that he’s not sure when he got used to this. “What do you need?”

Mox had asked the same thing, had looked at him the same way when he did, concerned and studious. But. Now, there’s an immediate promise of relief, of  _ tell him and you’ll get it, _ and that emboldens Kenny. He still doesn’t want to say it out loud—he never wants to say it out loud—but it doesn’t feel impossible, now. Like the too-clean comforter, it’s almost in his hands, and even knowing that lets Kenny breathe out.

“Could you, like.” He swallows hard, closes his eyes. The shame of saying it out loud is worth it if he can stop feeling like this. “Could you piss on me?”


	2. detaches and falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” Kenny mumbles, his skin tingling. Against Joey’s hip, his fingertips feel electric, like the desire has pushed itself out into every corner of his body. It’s so close to being too much, consuming more of him than he has, and Joey seems to see it because he just nods, takes Kenny’s hands and squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: kenny spends about 80% of this chapter dissociating, and it's heavily implied that he is self-harming through kink. if either of these things are likely to upset you, consider giving this fic a miss.
> 
> let me know what you think!
> 
> tumblr: [saturatedsinset](https://saturatedsinset.tumblr.com)
> 
> title & chapter titles from "Sweet Hibiscus Tea" by Penelope Scott

To Joey’s credit, he barely reacts, just nods slowly. Kenny’s not sure what he expected—disgust, revulsion, maybe even outrage—but Joey barely even seems surprised. Kenny doesn’t quite know what to think of that, unsure if Joey just doesn’t mind, or if he suspected it, or if he _talked_ to— Kenny stops that thought before it reaches the name. That’s impossible. Joey’s probably just. Chill. 

“Sure,” Joey says, half-shrugging. Kenny can’t quite believe that it’s this easy. “Mox said it’s, like. About being dirty?”

Kenny’s skin is crawling. He doesn’t want to explain it. Instead, he just nods.

“Is it a sex thing?” Joey’s tone is neutral, doesn’t suggest a right answer.

“Yes,” Kenny says, quiet, unsure whether he’s telling the truth. It’s not _not_ a sex thing, he reasons, and that’s easier than thinking through all the implications.

Joey doesn’t say anything, barely even reacts. It’s unnerving, his complete calm about this. Kenny thinks it would be easier to deal with disgust, or rejection. It would be confirmation that it’s not about becoming dirty, it’s that he’s already dirty, it’s buried inside him and he just has to live with that, but. The way Joey’s looking at him says that maybe he doesn’t think that, maybe he can actually help (fix) Kenny, and that’s so much to comprehend that Kenny’s chest feels like it’s bursting. 

And then Joey kisses him, his hands gripping Kenny’s skin tighter, fingertips digging into his arms hard enough that Kenny can almost see the little bruises forming. Joey’s still so careful, his tongue brushing over Kenny’s lip, coaxing a tiny whimper from him even as he opens up. For a moment the world narrows to this, the wet heat of their mouths together, Joey’s hands moving over his body, claiming him, quiet and soft and only intensified by the way Joey digs his nails into the soft skin above his hip, white-hot sparks that feel like they set his bloodstream alight. Kenny can feel his body arching toward Joey, every part of him desperate for more contact, and Joey makes a little amused sound low in his throat that tells Kenny he noticed.

He pulls back, and Kenny can’t help his desperate whimper, the way he paws at Joey’s side, chasing contact again. Joey’s grinning, more affectionate than amused and more warmth than affection, and usually the look in his eyes settles Kenny, but right now it just makes the itch under his skin worse, like his veins are full of kindling rather than blood. 

“Please,” Kenny mumbles, his skin tingling. Against Joey’s hip, his fingertips feel electric, like the desire has pushed itself out into every corner of his body. It’s so close to being too much, consuming more of him than he has, and Joey seems to see it because he just nods, takes Kenny’s hands and squeezes.

“Bathroom. Okay? Make sure things stay clean out here.” Joey says the last part like it’s a joke, a small crooked smile playing at his lips, and Kenny wants to laugh but he’s not sure he understands what’s funny. It’s all a half-step away, an echo in his ears instead of a real conversation. He fidgets, picks at his thumbnail for a moment before Joey nudges him. Right. Bathroom. As he gets up, his limbs feel too heavy, and Joey’s gentle hand on his back might as well be shoving him for how out-of-place it feels. 

They both pause for a moment in the bathroom as Joey glances around. He’s planning something out, Kenny can see, and for a second the evaluative stare turns Kenny on like he’s just another thing to take into account, just another moving part. He’s not even sure if it’s deliberate, but his dick clearly doesn’t care, the wave of arousal hitting him like a truck. Joey’s eyes flick back over to him as he gasps, and he must look desperate because Joey apparently decides not to make him wait anymore.

“Clothes off, and get in the bathtub,” he says, self-assured and even. Kenny can’t even feign reluctance under his gaze, and the approving nod Joey gives him as he strips off his shirt is somehow both reward enough and makes him want _more._ He strips off quickly, stumbling over the hem of his sweats in his rush to get naked, and after a moment’s hesitation kneels carefully in the bathtub. It doesn’t seem big enough for him to sit cross-legged. 

“Good,” Joey smiles, and Kenny feels himself _beam,_ his chest swelling with pride. The bright white enamel of the bath is cold against his knees, hard and unforgiving, but he barely registers it as he gazes up at Joey, anticipation and apprehension thrumming through him like a guitar string. He reaches out, lays a tentative hand on Joey’s thigh, denim rough beneath his fingertips. Kenny feels like his hand is being scratched raw. Joey takes his hand gently, pulls it away, and despite the relief Kenny doesn’t know if he’s thankful.

“Please,” he says again, instead of thinking about it. It’s so close. He’s so close to coming back to himself. Joey grins, a cocky half-smile, and unbuttons his jeans, achingly slow. Kenny’s staring, hungry, and he knows he must look desperate but he doesn’t care. As Joey pulls his jeans down, Kenny’s mouth actually starts to water, and he can’t help the little noise he makes, caught at the back of his throat. 

“How do you want it?” Joey asks, quiet, that same evaluative gaze looking him over again. Kenny shivers, feels his skin on fire with the shame of saying it out loud.

“Um. My mouth?” His voice is hardly audible even to himself, but Joey just nods.

“Open up, babe,” he says, gripping Kenny’s jaw for a moment, forcing him to look up. Kenny opens his mouth, feels the air cold against his teeth, shivers. “Good.” 

After a moment, Joey lets go of his jaw and pulls his boxers down instead, and Kenny thinks he should really be used to being relieved at the sight of a dick but somehow he still isn’t. _Finally,_ he thinks as Joey takes hold of his cock, and after another agonising moment, he starts pissing. Kenny’s barely registered it before the liquid hits his tongue, too-warm and water-thin, and almost immediately it spills out of his mouth and down his chest. It tastes awful, too bitter and too salty, but it doesn’t get bad until it hits his skin. 

Kenny can’t fucking breathe. Joey’s still above him, and he’s still pissing, but Kenny’s skin feels like it’s on fucking fire. He flinches, turns his face away to protect himself but that only makes it worse, means the piss gets on his fucking face, and Kenny’s going to claw his skin off. He can’t feel anything except too-hot-too-wet-too-sticky, even though it isn’t sticky at all, and he’s fucking choking on what’s in his mouth, coughing to get it out, and there’s nothing in the world except every place enamel or tile or piss is touching his skin and he wants to burn alive. He wants anything to get away from this, and he thinks he’s crying but he can’t tell, and that makes it worse. He’s so dirty. He’s so dirty and it feels so horrible and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do, knows he _asked_ for this, can’t do anything but wait until it’s done and then scratch himself raw, nails too blunt against his skin, trying to get every trace of it off him, and—

And Joey’s crouching down, level with Kenny, and Kenny only notices that he’s curled up as far away from him as he can get when he turns to look at him. His face is wet but he can’t tell with what, can’t open his mouth to speak. And Joey’s frowning, and that’s worse, means Kenny’s freaking out _and_ he did bad, and the shame that washes over him is somehow worse than anything else and the least of his worries all at once.

“Hey,” Joey says. Somehow he’s calm. He’s speaking softly, just like before, and that makes Kenny want to scream, want to claw his hair out. How can anything be the same as before? “Kenny? You okay?”

No. No no no. He’s not sure if he’s ever been okay. He still can’t speak, just shakes his head, scratches at his chest. He needs to get it _off._

“Alright. Okay.” Joey reaches over him, and Kenny flinches again. He doesn’t know what the fuck is happening, what the fuck Joey’s doing, and then there’s _hot wet on his skin again_ and this time he actually does scream, loud and guttural, pure instinct.

“Hey, easy,” Joey says, somehow unfazed. Kenny doesn’t know how. He can’t escape whatever’s pouring on him now, and he can’t breathe, and he can’t stop scratching his arms, doesn’t know if he’s breaking skin, can’t feel anything but _bad bad bad._ Joey takes his hands, too gently, and Kenny glances up and finds— oh, thank god, it’s just water pouring on him. It’s just water. “We’re done, okay? No more of that. I’m just gonna get you clean.”

Clean. Yes. Kenny needs to be clean. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been clean. He nods, trembling, and Joey squeezes his hands. He doesn’t know how Joey’s so calm. 

“I’m gonna get in there with you, okay? So we can clean you up.” Joey’s voice sounds weird, calm and half-strangled at once. Kenny tries to shuffle over so that Joey has space, but the slide of his skin against the bath feels like he’s stripping skin away and it hurts so fucking much and he can’t move, makes a tiny little noise to try and let Joey know. Joey doesn’t seem to mind how little space he has, just crouches next to Kenny calmly. He tests the water—too hot _too hot_ but Kenny can’t make himself say anything—and switches the stream to the showerhead. It’s too hot, feels like his skin is burning, but it’s better than being dirty so he doesn’t care, somehow lets (makes) himself breathe out. 

Joey’s still in his clothes, doesn’t even seem to mind, and it makes Kenny’s skin crawl thinking what that must feel like. He reaches past Kenny and squeezes some shower gel into his hands, and then he starts rubbing it into Kenny’s skin, impossibly gentle. Kenny’s grateful, can finally breathe again, but he still can’t bring himself to speak. It feels too big. Joey’s hands are soft, massaging his shoulders, and it feels so impossible but he’s actually starting to feel _clean._ It’s still too much, somehow, and he can’t bite back the sobs before they come, so intense his chest feels like it’s collapsing. Joey’s moved on to his arms, the burning too-much-too-dirty slowly replaced with soft soap and soft hands, and he’s a fucking mess, he’s crying in a bathtub in the arms of the man he begged to do this to him, and he never wants to get up.

Under the noise of the water, he can hear Joey talking, a soft murmur that he can’t quite parse, but even his voice is soothing, mirroring the motion of his hands on Kenny’s skin. He’s so fucking _gentle,_ coaxing Kenny to turn toward him, let him clean his chest, his back, his thighs, and there’s no way Kenny can thank him enough. He still can’t speak—the sobs have subsided, but there are still tears running down his face, mixing with the water, and there’s a dull, hollow ache in his head that tells him he’s cried enough to dehydrate himself. No words he can find express everything he’s feeling, so he stays quiet, stares blankly, lets Joey move him how he needs. It’s easier, like this. He doesn’t have to try to be a person.

After a little while—it feels like an hour and a second at the same time—Joey sets the shower gel aside, stands for a moment to grab the showerhead. Kenny registers the movement, vaguely, and he wants to be helpful so he stands, too, unsteady on his feet. He feels Joey’s chuckle more than hears it, his chest rumbling against Kenny’s skin, and it chases out some of the guilt. Joey doesn’t mind. He’s laughing. And then Joey starts to rinse him down, carefully, just as gently as he washed him, and the water doesn’t feel too hot anymore. Somehow everything’s more tolerable. Kenny closes his eyes, breathes out slowly. He’s not going to scratch himself bloody.

Joey gets out of the bathtub first, leaves the shower running on Kenny as he strips out of his clothes—now sopping wet and clinging to him, and it makes Kenny shudder to think about it—before he shuts the water off and grabs a towel. Kenny blinks, water running down his face, doesn’t know if Joey wants him to move or stay put or fuck off. He hopes it’s not fuck off.

“Come on,” Joey says, jerks his head toward the vanity as if he’s beckoning him over. Kenny goes, the cold air against his skin feeling too prickly, but. Joey wraps the towel around his shoulders before he has time to feel it for too long, and it feels like a hug, warm and fluffy and so, so soft. Kenny exhales, a weight off his chest, and lets himself really lean into Joey for the first time today. Joey holds him close, solid and steady and it’s so _kind_ that Kenny doesn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest, nuzzles into Joey and closes his eyes. 

“Let’s get you sitting in bed, how’s that?” Joey says softly, and Kenny wants to say _no, I wanna stay here_ but the prospect of a soft bed is so tempting. He nods, pulling the towel tighter around himself as Joey guides him carefully to the bed. “Why don’t you make yourself comfy? I’ll just be a sec.”

Kenny climbs awkwardly into the bed, towel still wrapped around him. The covers that had seemed so prickly before are soft, and Kenny doesn’t know how he felt it so wrong. The bed is comfortable, warm, and even though he’s alone he doesn’t feel panicked anymore. He can hear Joey’s voice through the bathroom door, too quiet for him to make out any words, but even the sound is comforting, proof he’s not on his own. The bed is too big, without someone there, but he tries to push the worry away, tell himself to wait for Joey, let him do whatever he needs to first. 

It’s not long before Joey comes out of the bathroom, phone in his hand. Kenny waves awkwardly, doesn’t even try to mask the relief of someone else being here with him. Joey smiles, easy as always, but he heads for his bag rather than the bed. Kenny frowns.

“You want some soft clothes?”

God, yes. He nods, still doesn’t quite feel like he can speak, and Joey grabs some clothes from his bag and tosses them over to him. Kenny catches them, and Joey’s right, it’s so soft. He awkwardly gets out of bed for a moment, pulls the clothes on—an old shirt, littered with holes near the hem, and a well-worn pair of sweats that must be workout clothes—and it feels like a hug, again, even Joey’s clothes holding him. He exhales, hadn’t realised the terry-cloth of the towel had been on the edge of irritating. Once he’s back in bed, he looks up and sees Joey digging in a cupboard, grabbing a few extra blankets. 

Joey straightens and catches his eye, smiling. “For us,” he says, holding up the blankets. They look so soft. Kenny smiles back, his cheeks hot. Joey’s being so _kind,_ he thinks, watching him grab a shirt for himself and come back to the bed. Before Joey even pulls the shirt on, he wraps a blanket around Kenny, soft fleece calming against his skin. Kenny exhales, closing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, unsure if he can say anything else. After a moment, the mattress dips, and the added weight tells him Joey’s there just before he feels his arms around his shoulders. Without thinking, Kenny curls up in his arms, tucks himself against Joey’s side like a puzzle piece. The moment feels so calm, blue behind his eyes and Joey’s hand gentle on his back and the blankets and covers wrapped around him, and part of him hates himself for needing to be so debased to have this, but he’s so thankful for it.

Joey’s quiet, just runs his hand gently up and down Kenny’s back, soothing. He’s not sure how much time passes—a minute, ten, an hour?—before there’s a knock on the door. Joey kisses the top of his head before he pulls back, and Kenny blinks his eyes open, confused.

“Just gonna get the door, sweetheart,” Joey murmurs, and it takes Kenny a moment too long to nod. The knock comes again, louder, and Joey kisses his hair again before he gets up. Kenny watches him, his own limbs heavy with exhaustion even as Joey bounces to the door. 

It’s Mox again. Kenny frowns. Mox seems to be everywhere. He’s saying hi, his rumbling baritone harmonising with Joey’s tenor. It sounds nice, Kenny thinks, closes his eyes again. Whatever they’re doing probably doesn’t concern him. He hugs a pillow, listens to their footsteps padding across the room, heading for the bathroom again. That’s a bit weird. _Whatever,_ he thinks. It’s their business. A moment later, he hears the soft _snick_ of the bathroom door closing, and then their voices, low but more intelligible than Joey’s had been earlier, drifting through the wood of the door.

“— _thinking?”_ Mox asks, his voice tight. He sounds like a pressure cooker, Kenny thinks, wonders what it’s about.

Joey’s reply is less audible, and Kenny can only catch a few words. “—asked. Said it—how was I—?” That strange quality in Joey’s voice is back, strangled but still mellow. Kenny hopes he’s okay.

“—read—you didn’t—irresponsible— _kill you,”_ Mox growls. Kenny frowns, opening his eyes and sitting up straight. Mox is gonna kill Joey? That sounds bad. There’s a moment of quiet, and now Kenny’s straining to listen, but he doesn’t think he hears Mox try to stab Joey, and. That’s a plus. So far.

The next thing he hears is Mox saying, “You need to leave,” low and deadly serious. Kenny shakes his head, wants to say _no, he can stay, he’s been so lovely,_ but he doesn’t think he feels up to talking yet. Besides, he recognises that tone from Mox, quiet intense anger that brooks no argument. Evidently Joey recognises it too, because a moment later they’re both coming out of the bathroom and Joey pulls a pair of pants on and smiles at Kenny, tight and a little forced.

“I’m going for a walk, babe,” he says. Kenny nods, and a moment later he and Mox are alone.

“Um,” Kenny says. His voice sounds weak even to himself, but Mox is just looking at him, and there’s no escape from the intensity of his gaze. He doesn’t look angry, though, just comes over and perches on the edge of the bed.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet. Kenny nods, pulling the blanket tighter around him.

“Why are you mad at Joey?” It’s the most words he’s said in what feels like an hour, and that feels like a victory. Mox smiles at that, shakes his head and scratches Kenny’s scalp gently.

“He just did something stupid. He’s fixing it.”

Kenny frowns. He didn’t know Joey did anything wrong. “What did he do?” 

“Nothing big.” Mox shifts a little, pulls his phone out of his back pocket, but he doesn’t stop scratching Kenny’s scalp, so he doesn’t mind. “You wanna talk to Kota?”

Kenny straightens so fast he almost knocks his head on the headboard. Mox hadn’t even waited for an answer—he’s already holding the phone out to him, “Ibushi” on the call screen. Kenny thinks he might love Mox, a little bit.

“Moshi moshi, Moxley-san?” Even through the tinny phone line, his voice is everything Kenny wants to hear, always.

“It’s me,” he says quietly, doesn’t even think about the transition to Japanese, closes his eyes and leans into Mox. He could stay in this moment forever, he thinks. “Hi, Bu-san. I love you.”

* 

The next day, he wakes up next to Joey—Kenny assumes he’d come back after he was asleep—who checks to make sure he’s okay before Kenny goes back to his room. It’s sweet, and normal, and he can breathe again, and he doesn’t think much about it beyond that. But then a week passes, and Joey’s interactions with him have been strictly platonic, and he still doesn’t think much of it until he’s in the middle of a phone call with Kota.

Kota says, “So, last week,” and alarm bells start ringing in Kenny’s head, even though he’s not really sure what Kota’s talking about.

“What happened last week?”

Kota’s used to Kenny’s forgetfulness, so there’s not even a pause before he says, patient, “You asked Joey Janela to piss on you, and then had a panic attack about it.”

Kenny blinks, thumbs at a scab on his arm without thinking about it. “I don’t know if the panic attack was necessarily related to the piss,” he says, truthfully. It had been a long time coming. “It might just have been the last straw.”

“Kenny-tan, you cry every time something sticky touches you for too long.” Kota sounds exasperated, but not angry, and Kenny can’t exactly tell him he’s wrong. “You have to take better care of yourself.”

“I just thought it would help,” Kenny mumbles, which isn’t a lie. He did think it would help. Just. Maybe because he deserved to be dirty, not because he needed to clear his head. He doesn’t say any of it, but he knows Kota hears it anyway.

“Angel…” Kota sighs. “You deserve to feel good. You deserve to have good things. And you deserve to not make things worse for yourself when you’re feeling low.”

Kenny doesn’t quite know what to say to that, doesn’t quite believe him, but he doesn’t want to say it out loud. Instead, he swallows, lets the phone line soak up the silence. For a long moment, the only sound is the low hum of the room’s air conditioner, dull and flat. Kota spends so much time trying to convince him that he’s worthy, that he’s good. He wonders if he’ll ever believe it.

Kota sighs, static against Kenny’s ear, his voice still warm honey. “Just promise me you won’t do it again.”

And, of course, because he’s always ready to do anything for Kota, Kenny promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm free. i'm free! i've been promising this fic to enj for fourteen months! i'm free! it's done!


End file.
